


hair of the dog

by fortyfive_rpm (2davidbeckham3)



Series: just another x-pensive night [2]
Category: The Rolling Stones
Genre: 1980s, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29169651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2davidbeckham3/pseuds/fortyfive_rpm
Summary: Mick visits Keith at one of his solo concerts and they share a kiss in Keith's dressing room. Naturally, Keith follows Mick to his hotel room.
Relationships: Mick Jagger/Keith Richards
Series: just another x-pensive night [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2141376
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	hair of the dog

**Author's Note:**

> Holy writing style change, Batman!
> 
> This is the longest thing I've written in years and also the most explicit.
> 
> More 80s references than Wonder Woman 1984.
> 
> But, in all honesty, true trigger warning: **There is a reference to the AIDS epidemic. Please read with caution.** It's very vague, but still there.
> 
> The title, _hair of the dog_ , is, basically, a colloquialism referring to easing a hangover by drinking alcohol. There's a [Nazareth song of the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?reload=9&v=j-pcvD03sBA) \- that doesn't fit with the vibe of the fic - but is where I found inspo from!

As far as kisses go, Keith’s had better. The angle has him craning his neck and Mick’s teeth cutting into his lower lip. It’s, truly, amongst the worst kisses he’s gotten in a while, but he has to be charitable with Mick’s tongue shoved down his throat – it’s the least he can do. It's not like he can dock points for enthusiasm, even if this is Mick’s twisted idea of a chinwag between old friends.

When the crick in his neck turns painful enough to lose focus, Keith snags his fingers in the excess fabric around Mick’s wrist and pulls. 

It takes a few rough jerks for Mick to pull away. His mouth’s gone slack in a show of wilted defiance. “I, uh—” Mick starts, before licking his lips, dropping his gaze to Keith’s mouth. “I’m not going to apologize.” 

Keith’s fingers twitch from where they’re tangled in Mick’s sleeve in an aborted attempt to form a fist. “I wasn’t expecting you to.” He didn’t expect much from a man that couldn’t look him in the eye at the mere mention of an apology. He exhales noisily through his nose as he tries to wiggle his hand free from the vice of his own making. 

“Should we, um, take this somewhere else?”

Keith freezes at Mick's question, though he wasn't putting too much effort in his attempt to move away, in the first place. He doesn’t want to think about what Mick’s uncharacteristic hesitation means. He’s half-tempted to shove Mick up against the wall and kiss him again, instead, since that’s turned out to be the most productive turn of course so far. 

He’s saved from having to answer by a knock on the dressing door. “Just a second,” he mumbles in an attempt to project a sense of space between him and the door. The scoff coming from Mick tells him that it was a poor effort and Keith gives him the two-fingered salute with his newly freed hand. 

It’s an awkward shuffle, trying to cover Mick with his body while leaving enough room to open the door, but it seems to work, given the fact that Steve Jordan’s slightly puzzled expression doesn’t change when Keith finally opens the door.

“What’s with this? You never lock your door.” He shakes his head at Keith’s responding shrug. “At any rate, you ready to head out?”

Now, Keith's faced with the inevitable fork in the road. He could keep Mick’s presence a secret from the ragtag group of musicians that make up the band he’s been fronting and face the inevitable fallout from that. Or he could treat this visit as his dirty little secret, and just avoid all that shit for now. 

“Oh, that’s right.” Keith raises his hand to his chin and pushes the heel of his palm against his cheek to crack his neck. “Actually, I, uh,” he grunts, scrambling to think of an excuse. He hates drama. He tilts his head to the other side and tries to pop his neck again to give him some more time to think. “Told an old friend I’d meet up with ‘em.” 

Steve’s brows jump to his hairline at the sound of Keith’s response. “They heard you were in town and couldn't even stop by your concert?” Steve lets out an incredulous chuckle. It’s a shit lie and Steve sees right through him. It’s not so much that Keith’s an open book, but the unavoidable bond that forms when people write songs together; writing partners have to cut through the bullshit to get to the good stuff. “Are you gonna go see Mick? I heard someone screaming for him around here. Thought they had you two confused for a sec.”

Keith lets out a cold laugh. "Gonna go see the queen bitch." He hopes his clarification sounds like a correction rather than an acknowledgment of the truth. Beside him, Mick shuffles his feet, unable to hide his discomfort. 

Steve laughs louder at Keith's response. “Well, we'll be around if you change your mind.” The smirk curling his mouth gives him away. He’s playing Keith’s game. “Charley wanted to try to get into Nell’s.” A stone’s throw away from the Meatpacking District. Close, but no cigar— Keith’s trying to get laid, just not quite like that. 

"Pfft." Keith waves a dismissive hand in Steve’s direction, shooing him away. You'll have a better chance of seeing me in Philly." 

Steve wags his finger accusingly. “I’ll let him know you said that.” He threatens, arching his brow, but his serious expression breaks as soon as he finishes the sentence. "See you later, Keith." 

Keith waits until Steve’s a few steps from the door before closing it. He locks it with a loud sigh of relief before turning back to an unamused Mick. "What? I didn't call you ‘Brenda.’" 

Mick purses his lips, annoyed expression turning grim. "You lied to him." 

Keith doesn't even flinch at the accusation, this time, waving his hand dismissively at Mick. "The truth’s gonna get out soon enough." He crosses his arms, matching Mick's glare. "I kicked the can down the road. I just didn't want to answer any questions now." He rolls his eyes at the way Mick furrows his brow." How’d you get backstage with barely anyone noticing?" Keith doesn't want to rise to the bait of the silent accusation.

A moment of silence stretches between them, only to break when Mick moves to scratch at the newly exposed skin at his neck. He tilts his head, anger in his gaze dulled back to annoyance. "I paid a roadie and both security guards at the side entrance." 

Keith raises his eyebrows, surprised. Mick must've paid the group off with a pretty penny. “Guess I gotta start lookin' into new security detail." Mick’s arrogance isn’t news to him, but the threat to his personal safety is. 

Mick shrugs, seeming to take the risk in stride. "They said they wouldn't tell anyone."

“Thank God for royalties," Keith grumbles, before turning to walk back to his vanity. His rings knock against glass liquor bottles as he picks up the bills littering the surface. It’s no wonder his wallet is mostly empty, save for the passport sandwiched between the folds. A pleased hum escapes his lips when he spots a Hyatt notepad next to his keycard. “Where’d you say you were stayin’?” He calls out, tearing off the sheet of lyrics he scribbled down before the show and stuffing it in his front pocket. 

"I didn't. I'm at the Plaza." A hint of laughter creeps into Mick's voice at the admission. "Thank God for royalties." 

It’s a straight shot as the crow flies, if Keith’s New York geography is up to snuff. Still, he feels like he should leave note. Steve’ll spread the word, no doubt about it, but the band would flip if they lost their lead singer. At least, the Stones had guitarists to spare. "The coast should be clear by now." 

A click of a lock follows his announcement. Surprisingly, Mick can still take a hint. Keith starts to skim over his note when he hears the low-pitched announcement. “I don’t see anyone.” He tosses the note down with a shrug. His handwriting might not be legible, but it doesn’t mention Mick and that’s all that matters. It might be a bit desperate of him, chasing after his former lead singer for a bit of tail, but misery loves company, after all. 

The security guards standing at the side door look surprised at their arrival, but it’s hard to tell if it’s because he's skipping out on the rest of the band or if it’s because forty percent of the Rolling Stones are in their presence.

"How's it goin'?" Keith claps Mick's shoulder in a would-be friendly gesture, though, in reality, he's digging his thumb into Mick's clavicle in a forceful reminder to stay quiet. "Mind if I walk the Missus to the porch?" It’s not quite a request since Mick pushes through the door before anyone can even say “Chuck Berry.”

Once they’re clear of the theatre, Mick shrugs him off to hail a cab. He waves the taxi down with one hand and jams his fingers in his mouth with the other to blow a proper New York whistle. The sound, oddly, gives Keith the urge to look around for Martha and the Vandellas, but he’s spared the search by the quick arrival of their cab. The air between him and Mick fizzles with something akin to the bubbles in the abandoned Coca-Cola can in his dressing room, atmosphere too delicate and too charged to be disturbed. It's a silent, tense trip to The Plaza since New York cabbies ignore everyone the same, from Ed Koch to Cindy Crawford. 

It seems like Ivana's making a statement by staying at the competition's given the way their footsteps echo through the oddly empty lobby, shoulders brushing with every step. The hotel staff don't even give them a second look, used to the glitz of people with silver spoons in their mouths. 

The charged atmosphere follows them to the lift. Keith drums his fingers against the handrail, the clinking of his rings fills the silence as they steadily make their way up to Mick's floor. 

Keith's only barely stepped over the threshold into Mick's rented room when Mick clears his throat and breaks the silence. "So, we're, uh, on the same page with this, right?" 

Keith spins on his heel to face Mick, who's still lingering in the hallway. He narrows his eyes. "I didn't come here to talk about our feelings and braid each other's hair." The fact that he's here should be statement enough.

"I don't think we have enough hair for that anymore." Mick's lip curls up into an insincere smirk. "I did pay to see you, after all." 

The implication stings like Mick means it to. Keith winces and runs his hand through his own greying hair. "I'm a cheap lay, then." He responds, dancing around the truth. 

"Not that cheap." 

Trust Mick to lord the price of his tickets over him. Keith opens his mouth to respond, but Mick interrupts him. "I shouldn't have to pay to see you." 

The response pokes at a still-tender wound. "I'm here now, aren't I?" Resentment simmers low in Keith's chest. He breaks Mick's gaze to study the door frame between them. He raises his hand to pick at a bubble of paint. "Against all odds," he mutters to himself, punctuating his statement by flicking the peeled paint chip to the floor. 

Keith looks back at Mick, only to have his gaze drawn down to his bottom lip held between his teeth. Keith's had stranger bedfellows than anger and arousal. He doesn't want to pick at the scab, but at least they communicate better without talking, they always have. He takes a half step forward to tug Mick towards him by the stretched-out fabric that hangs on his chest. He pulls Mick into a heated kiss, replacing Mick's teeth with his own. Keith bites at Mick's lips while Mick claws at his shoulders. It's easy for Keith to turn off his mind like this, sharing breaths with another person like it's any other night out on the town; he's the lead singer of a band, he's entitled to a lay and that's that. 

Mick pulls away with a gasp. "I should, actually, go back downstairs and get some extra toiletries." The statement comes out in a breathless slur, reluctance underlying every word. "If you— Just in case— uh, decide to stay."

"Fine," It's better not to respond to indirect questions and the ensuing prompt to rationalize his reasons for indulging in this sudden clandestine affair. Cool, air-conditioned air draws a chill down Keith's sweat-damp neck. "I'm gonna go take a shower." 

No sly quip follows the statement, nor a smug grin. Mick simply uncurls his fingers from Keith's shoulder with a perfunctory nod.

Keith's usually against Mick splurging, but having a robe to slip into after a refreshing shower and long set does wonders to change his mind. He's not against rummaging through Mick's luggage and finding something more conservative to wear, but it seems impractical, at this point. 

It's only when he slips out of the bathroom shrouded by a cloud of steam that Keith realizes what a precarious situation he's in. He could've slipped back to his band without Mick knowing. Mick could've gone down to the sex shops on 45th Street and Keith would've been none the wiser while rinsing soap suds from his ears. The implicit sense of trust surrounding their arrangement stops him in mid-stride in the middle of the room. The thought to run up the room tab flashes across Keith's head when the door unlocks with a beep. 

"Didn't mean to make you wait," Mick shuffles in with a small plastic bag in his hand. "There was a line." He closes the door behind him with a loud click. 

Keith stares at the hotel-branded toothbrush sticking up from his bag, identical to the one he had just placed his wallet beside of on the bathroom counter. "I stole your robe." The statement tumbles out of his mouth before he can think about it.

Mick, in the midst of toeing off his shoes, looks up at Keith with a small smile. "I see that. Shit attempt at seduction, if you ask me." 

Keith scoffs, watching Mick's slip off his socks, the epitome of seduction. "Look who's talking." 

Now rid of his excessive footwear, Mick holds the toiletry bag with both hands, twisting the thin handles. "So, uh, how're we—"

"Bed?" Keith raises a shoulder, gesturing to the adjoining bedroom with a confidence he doesn't feel, keenly aware of the sheen of desperation underlying their liaison. "I played a full set." 

Mick steps closer with a dry laugh, moving the bag to hang from his wrist. "Yeah, I was there." He curls a finger around the belt of Keith’s robe. 

Keith's not looking to be romanced, but there's no reason for foreplay to be purely utilitarian. He takes Mick's stiff upper lip between his as he walks backwards into the room, slowly unbuttoning Mick's shirt with each step. He stops when the back of his calves hit the bed frame. 

Mick takes this pause to carelessly toss the bag onto the nightstand. Something clatters as it slides and falls onto the floor, but Mick's quick to follow Keith down onto the bed, pressing his lips to his neck as he straddles him. He slides his hand up Keith's thigh before pausing. "This is weird." 

Keith squirms, spreading his legs so that Mick's hand rests on the inside of his thigh. "You’ve stuck your hand up a skirt before haven’t y’?" 

"Yeah," Mick shrugs, rubbing circles on Keith's thigh with his thumb. "But your cock’s never been at the end of it." 

"Today's your lucky day," Keith grunts before pressing his lips to Mick's. He's not here to talk. There are better places to have a conversation than in bed with The Rolling Stones' lead singer. He drags his nails down Mick's exposed chest before unbuttoning his trousers. He moves to tug at Mick's zipper, but he stops short, effectively distracted by the hypnotizing movements of Mick's hands. 

Mick’s lips get well deserved praise, but his hands don’t get enough attention. They don’t know how to do shit with a guitar, but, somehow, they always seem to find the spots that have Keith melting under their touch. He feels his eyes rolling to the back of his head under the grip Mick has on his thigh, but he’s truly undone, helpless to let out a moan when he feels the thumb of Mick’s other hand press into the crook of his elbow. Keith’s more than content to lie and put his mouth to good use while Mick works his magic. 

Keith doesn’t mind the eventual loss of the pressure on his thigh, but he does frown when he feels Mick pull his mouth away. It’s then that he realizes that the hand that was previously on his thigh is pawing ineffectively at his stomach. Keith’s frown deepens until he tilts his chin down to see Mick fumbling with the knot of his bathrobe. 

Laughter bubbles in Keith's chest, shoulders shaking as a few traitorous chuckles escape his lips. Multi-tasker Mick is not.

Mick looks up, face flushed. “What?” 

“I was just thinking about your hands.”

Mick's previous consternation dissipates as a crooked smirk toys on his lips. He's more than familiar with Keith compliments by omission. Though, his realization might’ve been helped by practical experience, namely Keith's responses under his ministrations seconds ago. “Only good things, I hope.” 

“Can’t say. I don’t want it to go to your head.” Keith, grins at the lightened mood, happy to finally be able to breathe. “Need help?” He asks, although, he doesn’t really mean it, entranced by Mick’s fingers as they tug at the knot.

“Nah,” Mick’s face brightens as he pulls the knot free. “Think I’ve got it.” And effectively silences any further response by wrapping his hand around Keith’s cock. He gives a couple of absentminded strokes before pulling away with an annoyed grunt, which Keith echoes. 

"Take that damn thing off," Mick sits up to shrug off his own shirt, a gesture that Keith mirrors while pulling off his robe. 

Keith tosses the robe off the side of the bed to the sound of Mick unzipping his trousers. He doesn’t hear them hit the floor before Mick latches his lips onto his collarbone. Mick’s hand’s around him again, soon enough, picking up where he left off with more enthusiasm. Keith doesn’t think there was too much difference, in terms of access, but feeling the smooth muscles of Mick’s shoulders flex under his hands drives him mad. He isn’t going to last long if they continue like this. 

“You have condoms in that bag of yours don’t y’?” 

Mick’s rhythm falters. “Can we use them?” His voice comes out high-pitched, absent of the gruff edge it held before. He doesn’t wait for an answer before skimming his lips from Keith’s collarbone up his neck to silence him with a kiss. 

It’s hard to focus with Mick’s tongue in his mouth, and the task’s made doubly difficult with Mick still working him with his hand. Keith pushes an arm against Mick’s collarbone to shove him away. “We’ve got the right parts, don’t we?” He pants, now truly hot and bothered.

“I mean,” Mick swallows thickly, gaze unnervingly focused. “with the way things are.” 

Keith stares at Mick, unable to parse which layer of meaning Mick’s referring to with this much blood down south. 

“In the world.” Mick adds, stretching out the word “world” in a way that’s supposed to be meaningful.

Keith, feels a flash of annoyance heat his chest before the realization steals the breath from his lungs. “I haven’t shared any needles with anyone recently,” he forces out, accusatory. He’s not inclined to ask Mick to disclose his recent history. Toeing around the subject is catching. 

There’s a lingering pause as Mick stares at Keith for a long moment. After a few heartbeats, he blinks and bites his bottom lip, now a different shade of worried. “And, you don’t mind? I was at your concert and, you know—”

Keith, puffs up his cheeks then blows out a gust of air, annoyed, because of course, Mick’s developed an obsession over hygiene in the heat of the moment. “You’ve shoved my cock in your mouth after plenty of concerts. I had mine up your ass plenty of times in Nellcôte, alone. You saw me get out of the shower.” And, maybe, it’s because he doesn’t want to think about how much things have changed since their last time, but Keith finds himself blurting out a proposition without thinking about its implications. “How about you fuck me tonight and I’ll fuck you later? Hell, we can even do it in the shower, if it’ll make you feel better.” He doesn’t want to make this a quid pro quo — they’re years past the point of fair negotiations — but he’d rather come with the help of someone else before the night is over. Preferably, the perfectly fuckable singer that’s currently straddling him. 

It turns out that Mick can multitask with the right incentive, if the way he rummages around the spilt contents of his bag on the nightstand while kissing Keith is anything to go by. He starts muttering in French which sends a thrill down Keith’s fingertips. Keith chases the spark by curling his fingers tangling his fingers through Mick’s hair, or, rather, lack thereof. He’s not used to the short length, scraping his nails against the back of Mick’s scalp before pulling on the hair there. 

Keith catches bits of phrases he recognizes and spends half a brain trying to decipher. It’s a kind attempt at a distraction, or a cowardly way to hide sweet-nothings, but he finds it hard to care as an involuntary keening noise is punched from his gut, an acute reminder of just how long it's been. 

They follow a discordant rhythm; Mick rocks his hips and Keith rolls in response. There’s no muscle memory after years apart, just inharmonious melodies fighting for space at the same time. Not that it doesn’t work— Keith’s always been a fan of jazz and it doesn’t take much for him to blink phosphenes from his eyes with Mick’s name on his lips. Mick follows soon after, calling out Keith’s name in a hoarse shout. 

Keith lies in a daze, letting out an unhappy sound when Mick gets up and pads away. He fully floats back down to his body when a damp towel brushes across his stomach. 

“I could get some of my clothes out of my luggage, if you want.”

Keith blinks his eyes open to Mick’s frowning face. “You need to work on your bedside manner.” No wonder Mick had a revolving door when women were involved. “Is this what you consider pillow talk? Kickin’ me out already?” 

Mick has the decency to look abashed. His flushed skin turns a darker shade of red. “I mean, you have a sho—”

“I told you I’d do you.” Keith interrupts, arching a brow. “I’d like to keep my word. I usually do.”

Mick holds his gaze. “People say a lot of things they don’t mean in the spur of the moment.”

Keith appreciates the kind gesture of being given an out, in a twisted way. He blames the post-coital haze. “I mean a lot of the shit I say.” Keith shrugs, too tired to argue. “C’mon, you like to cuddle, right?”

**Author's Note:**

> What is pacing? But, actually, awkward post-Breakup-now-on-the-mend-maybe vibes FTW! How else to portray the Glimmers awkwardness in their sexual encounter, but to pull out my rusty smut skills? In all honesty, though, this was a doozy to write. My search history now includes ["Dirty Phrases in French"](https://www.annieandre.com/sexy-french-phrase-mistakes/) (which didn't make the cut), "Prostitutes in NYC 1980s" (hence the [Meatpacking district](<a%20href=) reference), and "The 1988 Presidential Election" (you all were spared a bad Don Quayle joke).
> 
> \- Dan Quayle was George Bush's vice president. Here's a clip of Robin Williams making fun of him.  
> \- [Ed Koch](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ed_Koch) was the mayor of New York City from 1978 to 1989.  
> \- I can't find the list I originally used when I wrote this fic, but here's a list of some of NYC's ["most iconic hotels."](https://www.timeout.com/newyork/hotels/most-iconic-hotels-in-nyc)
> 
>  ~~anyone catch the dancing in the street reference~~
> 
> I'm just so very thankful that you've read this fic! I hope you enjoyed.


End file.
